


Cailean

by Westgate (Harkpad)



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - His Dark Materials, Child Abuse, Community: avengerkink, Daemons, Natasha's not in it much, Other, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 07:41:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2460302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harkpad/pseuds/Westgate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint's daemon takes forever to settle, but when she does, she's perfect. Loki changes everything.</p>
<p>For a prompt at avengerkink. See end notes for prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cailean

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for inconsistency with HDM. I read it a while ago, loved it, but am bad with details. I did read a little about daemons on a wiki page before jumping in here, but not much. I know that people don’t usually touch other peoples’ daemons, but I changed that just a little here, briefly. At any rate, I’m not an expert on Pullman’s universe; I just liked it when I visited and I liked the prompt a lot. I didn't get to everything in the prompt, but hopefully this can satisfy a bit.

When Eira finally settled into her permanent form, Clint was so relieved. She had flitted and flounced her way through most of his early years, changing form every twenty minutes, it seemed. She didn’t even have a favorite. She would start the day, often, as a ferret, but before breakfast she’d change. Clint tried keeping track of her forms once, but he lost his endurance at thirty three in one day.

Barney used to get annoyed with her, and his daemon, Hillevi, had absolutely no patience for her at all. Hillevi settled early into her ferret form, and would tut at Eira whenever she got a chance. Even before Hillevi settled, she’d stay one form for days on end, the opposite of Clint’s flighty companion.

Once, Clint asked Eira why she was so weird, and she just changed to a crow, huffed, and said, “It’s hard to tell what you need, you know” as if that were answer enough.

She didn’t settle for a very long time. When Clint was eight, and Clint and Barney got sent to the orphanage, she did begin to stay one form for a few hours at a time, and she often took the form of a small, compact beige Siamese cat. She would drape herself across Clint’s shoulders as he struggled through his homework each night, or nestle in between his arm and leg when he was curled in a ball, his body clenched and shaking, but not crying.

When Clint was sweeping out the garage of the first foster family to take him and Barney in after the orphanage, Eira hissed and clawed at the daemon dog of the broad-shouldered, square-jawed Mr. Linker, who decided that Clint didn’t do anything right and was slapping bruises onto Clint’s back and blackened his eye with the broom handle. When Clint scrambled away and tore down the driveway and ran until he was breathless, she flew next to him as a falcon and circled him protectively until he finally stumbled to a halt at an empty park and slid down the trunk of an old oak tree and rocked back and forth with his knees clenched to his chest.

She changed to s small rabbit and rubbed against his calves, imploring, “Clint you have to tell Barney. You have to tell him what just happened. Clint.”

Her voice was always clear and melodic, and it reminded him of a wind chime his mother had outside their kitchen window in Waverly. He didn’t answer, but he unfurled and stood, squared his shoulders, and said, “Come on. We have to go back. I’ll get in more trouble if I disappear.”

When he and Barney did disappear and ran off to the circus, she flitted even more erratically between forms, and the fortune teller, Miss Lindie, patted Clint on the head one day and said, “You’ve got a special daemon, boy.”

He laughed and answered, “Yep. A crazy one.”

But Miss Lindie smiled and shook her head. “A special one. You just wait.”

Eira waited until Clint was sixteen and a half to settle. When she did, it was into a small, southern flying squirrel, and Clint couldn’t help but laugh.

“Really, Eira? A squirrel?” he asked after it became clear that she had settled. He held her in his hands and admired her soft fur, her dark tan back and light brown belly, and ran his fingers over her tiny head and nubby ears. She had a dark black stripe down her back, and her eyes were black and shone like polished marble.

“A flying squirrel,” she corrected him, and stuck her tongue out.

“Well, I guess you can watch my act from the rafters now,” he said as she scampered to his shoulder and burrowed against his neck. He liked how it felt, and he hummed in contentment.

“I can keep an eye out for you,” she said.

“Yeah. You can do that, too,” he replied. She couldn’t really help him when it came to keeping out of trouble, and she found as much of it as he did, some days. But having her up high, leaping ahead of him to look out, that was good, he decided, and he marveled as she leapt from rope to rope in the circus tent, and how she showed off her gliding skill between the tents and trailers, never content to just run along the ground.

He liked her form, and it fit.

When Loki touched his spear to Clint’s chest years later, she was leaping from one of the computer banks to get to Clint’s shoulder, and she crashed to the floor in a heap when Clint’s eyes glazed and turned blue. She shook herself off and scampered to keep up, but she had a hard time following him. It was as if he’d been shrouded in a cloak against her, and she really was only able to stay close because of the pain of separation – she spent four days clinging to that pain and staying on its edge so as not to lose him.

When Natasha knocked Clint’s head against the railing on the helicarrier, Eira fell, too, and she didn’t get back up. She’d fallen through the crack of the landing they fought on, and when Clint came to in med bay, she was nowhere to be seen. He hurt, ached through his bones and had the feeling of a needle lancing the back of his neck, and he couldn’t find her. He had to fight with the others, though; there was no time for pain and searching.

“Clint, where’s Eira,” Natasha asked as they sat in the shawarma shop, exhausted. Nat’s own daemon, a white ferret called Vien, curled in her lap and lifted his head at the question.

“I couldn’t find her,” Clint said, and he realized his words were slurring a little. “I don’t know what Loki did to her,” he added. “I don’t remember her being around at all.” He sat up and slammed his boots to the ground, suddenly realizing how disoriented and sick he felt.

“Separated?” Dr. Banner asked from the other side of the table. “It’s been known to happen, but it’s supposedly terribly painful.”

Clint stood. “I haven’t been feeling much of anything the last few days, doc, and now _everything_ hurts,” he said, and a wave of guilt washed over him. What if he’d lost his daemon? What if she was gone and he didn’t even feel the pain of separation. What kind of companion was he? He felt nauseous and clammy; he sucked a heavy breath in desperately as Natasha moved to his side.

“Clint?” she said, her voice far away, and his knees stopped working and he dropped heavily to the floor.

When he came to, Phil was there, at his side, his own fox curled against Clint’s chest. They’d long since become comfortable touching, and Iona nuzzled Clint’s chin and said, “Come on, Clint. Wake up.”

Clint looked at Phil sleepily, and Phil was smiling softly, pushing his hand through Clint’s hair.

“He’s awake, Io, leave him alone.”

“But Phil,” Iona whimpered, and Clint reached up to pet the sleek fur of the fox.

“Hey there, foxy,” Clint said, and he was hoarse. He swallowed the water Phil held out for him gratefully. He was in medical, but not on the carrier. He was so tired; he felt like he was weighted down by chains, but he wasn’t nauseous anymore, and he wasn’t as achy, either. He looked around the sterile room.

“Eira?” he asked, afraid of the answer.

Phil reached down and picked up Clint’s hand, and rubbed the back of it gently. “We found her,” he said, but there was a hitch in his voice.

“Phil? What’s wrong?”

“Clint,” he replied, and he pulled his hand away and stood. “I’m going to show you something, and it’s going to be okay. Just. . . just trust us.”

Iona stood, too, and slipped off the bed. Clint heard her talking to someone on the floor.

“It’s okay. He’ll be happy to see you.”

Phil bent over and picked something up, and then turned back to Clint. “Clint, this is Cailean. He’s been waiting for you.”

Phil held out a beautiful pale champagne colored cat with sky blue eyes and orange tipped ears, and it climbed onto Clint’s bed, staying to the side and not touching Clint at all. It sat, and Clint admired its sleek, tall shape. He could see its muscles ripple as it settled on the bed. There was something familiar about the cat, and Clint found himself reaching out to pet him, holding his hand for him to scent, and feeling a wave of relief roll through his chest as the cat took a tentative step onto Clint’s stomach and then nestled himself down and started to purr.

“Clint?” it asked, and his voice was rich, deep, and clear, like honey, but it held a lilt. It was a lilt like a chime, and the sound settled in Clint’s ears like it belonged, like it was home.

“Eira?” Clint whispered, and the cat ducked his head a little and kneaded Clint’s chest lightly.

“I was?” he said, and then added, “I am. I am Eira, but not. . . not really. Not anymore.”

Phil said, “We’re not sure how it happened, and our researchers have never heard of anything like it, but he’s yours. We just knew.”

Clint nodded, feeling a lump in his throat and shivers down his arms. “Cailean,” he said, testing the name in his mouth. He grinned. “You’re gorgeous.”

“I tried to stay with you,” the cat said, and he crawled further up Clint’s chest until his nose was touching Clint’s chin. “I tried, but you couldn’t see me and you couldn’t hear me, and then you were gone.”

Clint felt tears welling in his eyes, and he blinked them away. He wrapped Cailean in a tight embrace and buried his face in warm fur. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and the memories of the days leading up to this rolled over him, threatening to crush him with their weight and terror. He looked up at Phil and said it to him, too: “I’m sorry.” All the lives, all the destruction roared through his mind and he was clinging to Cailean in desperation.

Iona leapt back to the bed and draped herself over Clint’s stomach, and Phil stroked his cheek. “We’ll work through it, Clint,” Phil said. “We’ll work through it and you’ll see that you don’t have anything to apologize for. Someday you’ll see it and we’ll help you.”

They stayed like that for a while, Clint closing his eyes as waves of guilt would roll through, Phil stroking his cheek and whispering assurances, and Iona and Cailean keeping him warm. As the night wore on and the doctors came in asking him to stay for observation, Phil and Iona migrated to a nearby chair, but Cailean wouldn’t move, and he stayed sitting on Clint’s chest, protecting him, purring and talking, showing Clint how he was still his, and more.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt read: I really like the idea that ive seen around the place that in very very rare circumstances a settled daemon might change - i would like to see that happen to Clint after Loki. I don't mind why it happens- maybe it turns from something cute into something fiercer to be a better fighter, maybe it turns into something easier to hug after nightmares, maybe it was blue and Clint can't stand the color anymore. Whatever the reason, its pretty unsettling not only for Clint and the daemon but for anyone who knew them before- settled daemons changing is so rare its almost like a myth. Feel free to make it as angsty or awkward a transition as you like, but happy ending please!   
> And an end note from me:   
> I found differing etymology for “Cailean,” but in latin it means ‘dove’ and Scottish it means ‘victory of the people.’ I thought both were fitting,  
> Iona means ‘lone,’ or ‘an island. I always imagine this is how Phil feels about himself much of the time.  
> Vien means ‘complete,’ although this was the least researched name of the bunch. I like it, though.  
> Eira means ‘mercy’ or ‘healing’ or ‘snow,’ all of which seemed fitting for Clint as a young man.  
> Of course, name meanings are also ambiguous and my ‘research’ can’t really be called ‘research’ at all. I googled each several different ways is all.


End file.
